


Blessed: Supplements

by Transient_Reality



Series: Blessed [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: BLESSED, Gabriel - Freeform, Gideon - Freeform, Michelangelo - Freeform, Multi, Original work - Freeform, elliott - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-07-28
Packaged: 2019-03-29 12:42:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13927347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transient_Reality/pseuds/Transient_Reality
Summary: A collection of Supplements to the Blessed series, with small stories about your favorite angels.Warning: Minor language.





	1. Series One, Chapter One: Michelangelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I finally get some answers out of Michelangelo.

I squinted at myself in the mirror, pinching my eyelids so close they nearly closed. I stuck out my tongue and opened my eyes extremely wide, making a surprised expression. Pressing my palms to the edges of the sink and leaning forward, I gnashed my teeth together and growled, shaking my head like a dog so my hair ruffled. I giggled and leaned back again.  
"Milady, have you finally lost your mind?" Michelangelo, who was lounging on the sofa in the other room, said.  
I leaned from my bathroom across the hall from the living room to peer into the other room. Elliott was sitting on the floor, PlayStation controller in his hands, furiously tapping the buttons as he battled a boss in Persona 5. He was seemingly lost to the world outside of the game, which I commended him for. All the better for him not to hear Michelangelo admonish me for the twelfth time that day. If he had been paying attention, I'm sure he would have snapped back at the blonde angel with some smart remark.  
Michelangelo lounged on his side on the sofa, dressed in a simple white button-up shirt and casual pressed pants, an outfit which exemplified the most 'casual' the rather serious angel ever got. He snapped off another piece of a chocolate bar. Small brown wrappers littered the floor and sofa around him. I marveled that a man could eat so much chocolate and remain as slender as Mich was. I gestured with the comb in my hand.  
"If you _must_ know, Mr. Perfection, I'm trying to find a part of my face besides my eyes that I don't utterly despise."  
I stepped out of the bathroom and leaned over the back of the couch, watching Elliott's game. On the screen, he was choosing the move for a tall dark-haired young man wearing a red-and-white fox mask.

"I'd suggest _Bufula_ , babe," I said, tugging Elliott's ponytail. "Knock that bastard flat on his back with Yusuke's ice."  
Elliott snorted.  
"Yusuke? Don't you mean your _precious, darling, dear, adorable, prince?_ " He looked up at me and grinned, his teeth wide and white between his lips.  
"Oh shut it, prettyboy," I batted at his face and glanced at Michelangelo, who was lounging against the pillow on the arm of the couch and holding a square of chocolate delicately between his fingers.

"If you keep eating those," I said, gesturing toward the bag of chocolate bars on the table beside the couch, "you're going to have a heart attack. Are heart attacks even a thing you guys can have? Or do you have like...saintly insides?"  
Michelangelo snorted and popped another piece of chocolate in his mouth.  
"I do not have a digestive system like yours, milady. I can stop whenever I'd like."  
"Alright, then stop right now."  
"I said whenever _I'd,_ like."  
Elliott must have been listening better than I had thought, for at those words he snorted and the character on the screen of the game performed a punishing blow to his opponent. His lamp-like green eyes turned toward me for a moment, a snarky grin on his face.  
"He's got you there, prienta."  
I gawked at the two of them, both of them gazing up at me like two brothers who had just sassed their mother. I put my hands on my hips.  
"I know I said I wanted you two to get along, but this is not what I meant," I smiled a bit to let them know I was joking as I snatched the bag of candy bars from the table.  
Instantly, it seemed the air in the room changed. I cringed and paused at the doorway, my back to the room. Chills like cold fingers crept down my spine. It was happening again. I held the bag of chocolate a bit tighter and gritted my teeth, waiting for it. It was as though a sudden chill had swept through the room, a frigid draft whisking down the hallway of my apartment and past me.  
"I wouldn't take those if I were you," Michelangelo said darkly from the couch.  
I slowly pivoted and shook the bag in his direction, all humor gone from my face now.  
"Come and bloody take it, ye bastard," I said in a mocking Irish accent.  
Almost instantly, the warmth in the room returned, Elliott, who had been silent throughout the exchange, quietly returned to his game without a word, his nervous seafoam green eyes unsure. Michelangelo hung his head and shifted to press his fingers to his temples, as he always did after he had one of his 'bouts.'  
It happened every once in awhile since he had turned into a Demon. It was always the same. The room would go dark and cold, his eyes would flash and a distasteful and slightly manic frown would appear on his face. His voice would go very deep and he would speak with such authority and depth, it was as though some deep, thundering anger slept under the surface. It seemed as though something else entirely had overtaken my beloved blonde angel and made him an entirely different person.  
At first, these episodes had frightened me beyond belief, as expected. I had wondered, terrified, if this was Mich regressing, transforming back into his Darkened Demon self. I wasn't certain I had the energy to rescue him from that state once again. I was still recovering from the last battle, my wounds healing quickly but still showing signs of scarring. I had watched, horrified, the first few times as something dark had seemed to pass over Michelangelo's face. His hands had shaken and an intense anger seemed to burn within him.  
The episodes never lasted long, however, and within minutes the shadow would seem to pass, leaving Michelangelo looking drained and exhausted. He would fall into whatever seat was nearby and refuse to speak for several minutes, rubbing his temples and sighing dejectedly.  
I had asked him, time and time again, to explain what was going on. Was it some sort of mental illness that was taking him over? Did angels even get mentally ill? But he would always refuse to explain and the lack of explanation was maddening.  
He had never withheld things like this from me before, never when it came to his personal health or well-being, probably because he knew it was no use. I either could already feel what was ailing him, due to our special angel-Blessed connection, or I would badger him about it until he gave in and explained himself. But it seemed this was one thing that he refused to be an open book about, and it drove me absolutely bonkers.  
I dropped the bag of chocolate back onto the table and put my hands on my hips, my eyebrows together in frustration.  
"Alright, pretty boy," I said authoritatively, "you're coming with me. We're going outside and you're going to explain to me what the hell is going on."  
"Milady, please-"  
"No," I said, holding up a hand to stop him. "I'm tired of you going through these phases and not explaining anything to me. That's not going to work anymore. If I've learned anything after what we've been through, it's that being passive gets you nowhere. It's time for me to be more assertive, and I'm starting with this. I want to know the truth. Everything."  
Breathing heavily, I glared at him and he seemed to deflate.  
"Okay, milady," he said softly. "I'll do it. I'll tell you everything you want to know. You should probably understand it anyway."

Mich and I strolled down the street. He pressed close to me, as he always did when we walked together, as though it were second nature for him to be so close. As though he wanted to protect me.  
It was late June, the emerald leaves on the trees flickering and flashing in the summer sun. It was a cooler day, the temperature hanging at a rather pleasant 70 degrees, rather than the usual 80 or 90. I could hear the low buzz of cicadas humming in the breeze, as well as someone's lawnmower humming. A single fluffy cloud lazed about in the sky like a stray sheep. Small squiggles of heat waves rose from the pavement of the street to our left, and a small child on a tricycle wheeled himself past us on the sidewalk, a look of fierce determination on his face as he pushed the pedals.  
It had been several minutes since we last had spoken, letting the warm silence enfold between us. We often walked like this, saying nothing, simply enjoying one another's company, though this time was different. I could tell Mich was building up his courage to say something. Finally, he spoke.  
"Milady, we have not spoken in depth or detail about what happened last month," he said quietly, pausing at the corner of the block and touching my shoulder to stop me as a car revved through the intersection. We continued walking as I answered.  
"No," I said. "I always assumed nothing needed to be said. I got angry, I got hurt, and you suffered because of it."  
"And you feel guilty about it."  
It wasn't a question. I pressed my fingers into my palm, forming a tight fist. He was right, of course. I did feel guilty about it, I felt guilty about it all the time. Every time I remembered what it had felt like, seeing the results of my thoughtless actions, as the shadows had poured over Michelangelo, as I had felt the pain he had endured, the feeling of red-hot needles sticking into my skin, the searing anger and depression ravaging our shared consciousness, as I had remembered the feeling of reaching through warm, suffocating darkness to save him, guilt always crushed my chest. I bit back tears.  
"Yes. All the time."  
Michelangelo lightly touched my shoulder as we continued walking.  
"I know there is nothing I could say to lessen that guilt, milady," he said quietly, "and I know what I am about to show you and say to you will only make it worse, but I wish for you to know the truth of what has happened."  
We paused in our walk, and he slowly turned to face me. He met my eyes for a long moment, holding my shoulders. I gazed back at him, searching his eyes. Normally clear and cool as cloudless skies, they now seemed like the troubled trembling waters of an ocean right before a tsunami. With a quiet sigh that lifted his chest slightly, Mich reached up and lifted his shining golden locks. They had blessedly regrown since becoming darkened and short after the Demon had overtaken him, returning to their lush fullness so he had to tie them back into a ponytail once again, but then I saw what he was trying to show me.  
A single lock, still darkened and haphazardly sheared, flicked down from his scalp, standing out boldly against his honey-colored hair. As he watched my face, he let his hair drop again and he sighed.  
"Becoming a Demon has lasting effects, even if the angel is saved," he said, his eyes mournful, as though he knew his words were not helping ease my suffering and he hated himself for saying them. "The angel has done something nearly unforgivable, they have done the opposite of what they were intended to do. Instead of making their pained stead happy, they have instead regressed and become even more depressed and even darker. Thus, even if saved, an angel bears a mark to remind them of their mistake. Mine is this lock of hair. Some others receive tattoos or scars, some have lost eyesight, it varies from angel to angel."  
He sighed, his brilliant blue eyes lowering from mine.  
"That is where these...'episodes' come from as well. For my soul has been stained. It is not irreversible, I can stop them from happening, but...," he met my eyes and he looked so pained, so lost and confused that I wanted to wrap my arms around him and keep him safe. "But I couldn't bring myself to burden you with more guilt than you already feel. I couldn't bear to make this your problem, and so I battled with my darkened soul alone. I thought I could control it, thought I could keep it from upsetting you."  
He let the silence linger between us. I sensed he was done for the time being.  
I stepped forward and gently took his face in my palms. His skin was so soft as I gently ran my thumbs over his cheeks. I met his eyes as I spoke.  
"Mich," I said, his name hanging in the air as though it were fashioned out of gold. "I wish you hadn't kept this from me. I knew something was bothering you, and it wasn't just me. The others could tell as well. You can tell us when things like this are bothering you, Mich, you know that, right? We're your friends, I shouldn't have to spell that out for you, you're insanely smart." I took a deep breath. "I appreciate you trying to protect me from this, though. That's all you ever try to do, keep me safe and protect me. You might see this as some sort of failure on your part, but I think all you've ever done is kept me safe."  
I pressed my forehead to his and smiled a bit.  
"We'll heal you, Mich," I said softly, pressing my fingers against his. "It kills me to see you in pain. We'll figure this out, and we'll heal you, and you'll have a clean soul again. If for no other reason than to help relieve this crushing guilt in my chest."  
When I opened my eyes again, Mich was smiling.  
"Thank you, milady," he said, touching my chin. "Once again, it appears to be you rescuing me, rather than the other way around."


	2. Series One, Chapter Two: Michelangelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Spooky Scary Skeletons send Shivers down Your Spine...
> 
> And where Michelangelo gets himself into a whole lot of trouble.

I glanced up from my laptop as my ears perked up. I heard the soft click of the solid metal front door of the apartment opening, followed by the exotic voice of my boyfriend and the softer, sweeter tones of my guardian angel. They were bickering again, no surprise there. The two seemed to have two modes of their relationship: a timid brotherhood or at each other's throats. I sighed. It was the best I could hope for.  
"She's going to be very upset with you," Elliott was saying. I heard the crinkle of plastic bags as I stood, brushing down the skirt of my dress and entering the hallway that led to the stairway to the front door.   
There was a soft thunk and more crinkling as Michelangelo pushed the door closed behind him with his hip. I stood at the top of the stairs and gazed down at the two angels, one with a head of ocean blue hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, and the other with sunny blonde hair, also pulled into a ponytail. I groaned inwardly.  
They were in a sea of plastic bags, with several piled upon the stairs before them and several more at their feet. I crossed my arms as Michelangelo spoke. Neither of them had spotted me yet, preoccupied with their conversation as they were.  
"I got the things she asked for," Michelangelo was saying, slightly defensively. "She should be happy. Besides, she likes the things I purchased, she can have some of them as well."  
"I sent you guys for Halloween decorations," I said, beginning the descent down the stairs and eyeing the bags. "That looks like a whole lot more than some spooky garland and ghost-shaped party lights."  
Elliott gestured to Michelangelo and stepped aside, as though handing the conversation to him.  
"I did as you asked, prienta," he said, offering me a plastic bag. Eyeing him, I snatched it and pawed through it.  
"Hm, I like these," I said.   
I withdrew a roll of violet-and-black garland with small white ghosts hanging from it, a line of small plastic lights shaped like ghosts and skeletons, and several wads of cottony fake spiderwebs.  
"Though I do not know why you wanted the fake spiderwebs so much," Elliott said teasingly, nudging me with his shoulder and nodding to the corner of my rather cramped entryway, where you could just spot the web of a crafty spider.  
"Hey," I said defensively. "You leave Sebastian alone, alright, he does his job. I've found like five insects caught in his web, alright, better in his web than in my bed. We have a very particular agreement."  
"Oh? What's that? You're too lazy to clean his web up and chase him away?"  
"No, you dick, it's that as long as I don't see him, and he continues to capture insects in his web, he can stay. He's not hurting anyone."  
"Besides," I continued, crossing my arms and looking away from him with a mocking huff. "He has a family to take care of."  
"A family," Elliott said flatly, a teasing grin playing around his lips.  
" _Yes, a family._ Claude lives at the top of the steps and Ciel lives in the computer room."  
I hadn't even finished the statement before Elliott was wrapping his arms around his midriff and laughing, his face red. When he had caught his breath, he chuckled and kissed my cheek.  
"You're so cute, prienta. You wouldn't hurt a fly. Unless that fly is Michelangelo, who bought...a bit more than decorations at the store," he nodded at the other plastic bags around their feet, and Michelangelo, who had been attempting to sneak past me up the stairs with a few of the bags, froze in place like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  
" _Mikya'eng_ ," I hissed. "What have you done."  
He slowly turned and grinned at me sheepishly, holding the bags up.   
"Oho," Elliott snorted. "The angelic name. You're really in trouble now, Michelangelo."  
He was right. I really only used Michelangelo's true name, his name in the angelic language, when I was truly upset with him.  
"I have only gotten a few additional things, milady," he said, shoulders slumping as he wilted under my scathing gaze.   
"Come here."  
He slowly descended the steps once again, setting the bags beside me and stepping back as I began rifling through them.   
There was an assortment of Halloween decorations, as I had asked. More garland, this a mixture of orange and black. Rolls of "POLICE LINE, DO NOT CROSS" tape. Several signs, each saying things like "BEWARE" and "THIS HOUSE IS HAUNTED." There were a few more clumps of spiderweb, a few light-up and glow-in-the-dark pumpkins and ghosts, a few decorative gourds. But the decorations only accounted for about half of the bags.  
The other half were full of sweets. I groaned as I pulled bags of candy, snack cakes, individual pies, ice cream and cookies from the other bags. By the end, I was standing with a bag of Snickers in one hand and a box of cookies in the other, eyebrow twitching as I glared at Michelangelo.  
"This is the last time I lend you my debit card to go shopping, Mich," I groaned, dropping the bag of Snickers back into the plastic bag as Elliott snickered behind me. "I don't even _like_ Snickers. You're going to make my bank lock my card again if you keep buying things that make them suspicious."  
"Milady, if I may, I have never done this before-"  
"Not true," Elliott snorted. "The last time she sent you out for milk and yogurt and you came back with the milk and the yogurt, as well as two bags of sugar cereal."  
"They were on _sale_! And the young lady at the checkout was so nice, mentioning them to me because I had purchased other breakfast things-"  
"Your sweet tooth is going to empty my bank account, blondie," I said, gently tossing a bag of chips at him as he flinched reflexively and hung his head.   
"I am sorry milady," he whimpered. "Would you like a Sour Patch Kid?" He held out a bag of the small sour candies and I eyed him. "First they're sour, then they're sweet, just like having a guardian angel?"  
I peered at him and he slowly smiled, as though imploring me to smile too. Finally, I felt myself snap and I started laughing, falling back against Elliott and clutching my stomach.  
"Damn you, blondie," I said breathlessly, wiping my eyes between giggles. "I can't stay mad at you."

"Prienta, what are you doing?"  
I was standing on my tiptoes in the living room, repeatedly tossing a string of garland at the corner where the wall and ceiling met and grunting with effort. Elliott stood in the doorway and crossed his arms, smiling at me with one side of his mouth turned up, looking entertained by my struggle.   
I frowned at him and put my hands on my hips.  
"I'm trying to hang this garland in the corner of the room," I groaned, "but I'm not tall enough."  
"Alright, c'mere, let me help you."  
I squeaked as Elliott ducked below me and in an instant, he had lifted me onto his shoulders, my legs hanging over his shoulders. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he stood, snickering.  
"There is no need to be so afraid, April, I'm not going to drop you," he said. I shivered a bit as he said my name. He used my real name so rarely, usually opting instead for the exotic-sounding prienta, which he had told me meant 'princess' in angel language. I adored the way he rolled the r's in his sentences, especially in my name.   
He carried me to the corner, which I could easily reach now. I lifted the garland and secured it in place, and Elliott lowered me to the ground, but not before catching my chin and kissing me quickly, holding my cheeks. I smiled and wrapped my arms around his neck, deepening the kiss before a voice interrupted us.  
"I would hate to interrupt this tender moment," Michelangelo said as Elliott and I broke apart, "but I believe you will want to see this, milady."  
I blinked and gazed at Elliott, who shrugged.  
"Go," he said, patting my back. "I'll be right behind you."  
I followed the blonde angel to the hallway, where he stopped me. With a flick, he turned off the lights in the hallway. I gasped.  
Michelangelo had decorated the hallway with dozens, seemingly hundreds, of tiny orange lights. They were strung from the ceiling and across the walls, and even along the bottom corners of the walls, outlining the hallway to the stairs. When he turned out the lights, the orange lights sprung to life, twinkling in the twilight of the growing dusk outside. I touched the wall, eyes sparkling.  
Mich had wound glittering orange and black garland between the lights, which reflected and sparkled the light of the fairy lights back off of it, creating a glistening fall-colored hallway. It was breathtaking and welcoming, eliciting a feeling of warm blankets on cold nights, while the wind whistled outside and spoke of howling ghosts and haunted graveyards. It was an emotion I could only describe as the "Autumn Emotion," those tiny trembles you get when you think of color-changing leaves, whispering winds and pumpkin spice candles, that strange emotion you get only during this time of year.  
"There is more," Mich's voice was soft in the twilight, and he took my hand and guided me down the hallway to the stairs, where the lights continued.   
He had hung lights along the stairway leading to the front door as well, and had wound more garland around the railings for the steps. He had hung great swaths of spider webs from the walls, and flecked tiny black spiders with rickety legs within the silken threads. I laughed a bit, as I noticed at the bottom of the steps he had hung a small chalkboard. "Here Lives Sebastian, King of the Spiders. He is simply one hell of an arachnid," the sign said.  
"I thought your little spider friend could use some friends of his own kind," Mich chuckled, hands on his hips. "What do you think, milady? Does it live up to your expectations? Are you less angry about the sweets now?"  
I gazed at him, the lights reflected in my eyes, and nodded slowly.   
"Yes, Mich," I said, my voice low in the darkness. "This is beautiful. Thank you."


	3. Series One, Chapter Three: Michelangelo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we learn more about angel society and Michelangelo muses about humanity.

It was unseasonably warm for early fall in Minnesota. It was that strangely beautiful interlude between the lazy heat of summer and the bitter cold of autumn and winter, when the insects had already retreated to whatever underground hovels they hibernated in during winter, when the sun hung low in the sky, ready for its inevitable requiem and the cool paintbrush of fall dabbed the trees in fresh dresses of red, orange and yellow.  
It was in this warm, lazily sunny day that I discovered Michelangelo, sitting neatly upon the swinging bench in my backyard, ankles tucked neatly together. He didn't even raise his head to acknowledge my presence as I pressed the swinging door to my apartment shut and stepped down the concrete steps to join him. He was dressed casually again, in neat, dirt-free cream-colored pants and a light blue polo. His hair was pulled into its usual ponytail, and I could see he had carefully pinned back the darker strand that usually hung just behind his ear. The idea of my angel being so ashamed of a part of himself that he felt the need to hide it even from himself made me utterly unhappy.  
Brushing the other seat of the swinging bench clean and lowering myself into it, I watched Mich's face. The blue-eyed angel was watching some children playing in the alley. I turned and watched them too, neither of us saying a word. I wondered what he was thinking.  
The three children were playing a game that looked very much like a combination of keep-away and tag. There was a small black-haired child with glasses, a very tall child with shining silver hair, and a blonde child of medium height. The blonde child seemed very angry and he kept shouting at the other two for acting in ways he didn't like. The children were tossing a light blue ball between them when suddenly the tallest child lost control of it and it came tumbling onto our lawn.  
"Oh look what you've done now!" the angry blonde child shouted as the silver-haired child rubbed his neck nervously.  
The black-haired boy ran to pick up the ball, a feat that left him hugging the entire thing with both arms. He smiled nervously in my direction and I waved, making him grin as he returned to his friends.  
"Humans are fascinating," Michelangelo murmured, seemingly as much to himself as to me, still watching the children.  
"What makes you say that?"  
He squinted and peered closer at the children.  
"You seem to have this...innate ability to communicate with one another, and it is fascinating," he said slowly. "I see it not only in television shows and in your novels, but in real life as well. It sometimes seems as though you do not even realize you are doing it."  
"What do you mean?"  
"For instance," he nodded toward the boys. The black-haired and silver-haired boys were now running to keep out of the reach of the blonde, who was chasing them in a fit of what seemed to be an intense rage. "Those boys. You do not know them?"  
I shook my head.  
"I know that they moved here from Russia or something," I said thoughtfully. "But I don't even know their names."  
Mich nodded.  
"That is even more fascinating then. Because when you waved to the boy, he seemed to understand your body language and hand sign to mean you allowed his action, coming onto your lawn to retrieve his toy. Yet you did not say a word. It is...astonishing, the way you humans interact with one another. Further so because you come from different cultures, if what you say is true and he is from an entirely different country altogether, where likely the customs and hand signals would be different."  
I gazed from Mich back to the boys and nodded.  
"I suppose," I said. "This is...well I was going to say it's surprising to hear you talking about something so deep, but in all honesty, this does seem like you. I can't help but wonder, what brought this on?"  
Mich was silent for another long moment before he responded.  
"Milady, have I...caused you anguish?"  
I blinked, taken aback.  
"Anguish? How so?"  
Michelangelo finally turned to me, blue eyes alit like lamps.  
"By making you my Blessed," he said slowly, "I have alienated you from the rest of your kind."  
He gestured toward the children, the surrounding houses and the street on the other side of the apartment house.  
"These people, you are no longer like them," he said, turning his face away from mine. "You are not entirely human. However...you are not entirely angel, either. You are a half-breed, a rare breed, the likes of which can never truly fit in with either group." He lowered his eyes to gaze at his hands. "All without thinking. I did it without second-guessing myself, without even stopping to think how it might affect you or your relationships with others...I have alienated you."  
He gazed at me, and I felt myself soften as I reached to touch his cheek. He met my eyes and trembled under my touch.  
"I have failed you," he said softly.  
I smiled softly and kissed his forehead.  
"Mich, listen to me," I said, taking his hands and folding my own around them. "Listen. I can't believe you're saying these things right now. Take a look at yourself. Are you a Demon right now?"  
"No, but-"  
"Hush. No buts. You are not. You know what you are? You are a kind, caring, serious, responsible, sensitive man, but you are far too hard on yourself. You have not _failed_ me, Mich, you saved me. I was in a very dark place before you came along."  
"But you are still so sad, milady," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "Did you think you could hide it from me? I feel your sadness, it only seems to grow with each passing day..."  
He trailed off as I shook my head.  
"Mich, you can't consider yourself the cure-all of all my problems," I said carefully. "You have helped me, certainly, and having you and the others around has done wonders for my mental and physical and emotional health. But even though you are my Guardian Angel, even though I am your Blessed, sometimes I don't need you to try to solve all my problems for me. Sometimes I need to solve my problems on my own, and I need you to just be around to help me up if I fall, or to cheer me on as I dive into my battles." I patted his cheek. "You are a _hell_ of a knight, Mich, but you can rest sometimes."  
Mich was silent for a long time, as I released him to lean against the swinging bench again, rubbing his arm softly.  
"So often it feels as though you are doing the work here, milady," he said with a soft chuckle. "Cheering up your Guardian when he should be doing the cheering up for you. I apologize."  
"You're a being with emotions and feelings, just like anyone else, Mich. You're allowed to lean on me and let me help you when you need it. This is a two-way street relationship, after all."  
I let him stew in silence for a moment before I asked him another question.  
"Mich, why are you so fascinated by humans?"  
"Whatever do you mean? You humans are fascinating creatures."  
"Yeah, I get that. I mean...you've had human steads before, haven't you? How can we still be doing things that surprise you that much?"  
Michelangelo chuckled deep in his chest.  
"That is what is so truly fascinating about you, milady," he said, stretching his arms to indicate, I assumed, humanity in general. "I have had many steads, yes, but the reality is that humanity is continually surprising me. With what you learn, what you say and do, your actions toward one another. Certainly, your actions and words are not always wholly positive or constructive toward one another...but even in the darkest of situations, you humans seem to find a way to build little lights. That is what fascinates me, milady."  
I saw the shining in his eyes and rested my head on his shoulder.  
"Tell me more about your kind, Mich," I said after a moment. "We've talked a lot about humans but I don't know much about angels."  
"Where shall I start?" Michelangelo leaned back and looked thoughtful for a moment. "What would you like to learn about first?"  
"You've said there are other sorts of angels besides Guardians, right? What are the others?"  
"Ah," Mich sat up straight and cleared his throat. "You see, milady, there are four different sorts of angels, and each performs a different, but no less meaningful, task."  
"First, there are the _Spar'eng_ " he said, pronouncing it like _sparr-enj_ and rolling his r a bit. "I suppose in your human tongue it would translate to the Angelic Knights. They are our leaders, those who govern us and our actions."  
"So, like the court that tried to charge you for becoming close to me and becoming a Demon."  
"Precisely," Mich said, making a face. "Those were the _Lar'Spar'eng_ , or the Lawful Angelic Knights. They are the court who tries those of our kind for misdeeds and general misbehavior. There are other subsets of the _Spar'eng_ as well, but perhaps the most important of these are the Holy Four."  
Even him just saying the name seemed to strike me somehow. I shivered a bit at the power behind the words, even though I didn't even know who these angels he spoke of were.  
"You see, the four types of angels are each governed by a single member of the Holy Four. And the greatest of these, the most important and the leader of the _Spar'eng_ himself, is..."  
He faded out, seemingly unwilling to say the name, so I finished it for him.  
"Michael. Your father."  
Mich's lips thinned. I reached to touch his hand but he moved it.  
"A-Anyway. Then you have the Guardians. They are the most well-known of the angel types, of course, for obvious reasons. There are the basic Guardians, which are angels like myself, and Gideon, and Gabriel, who help humans like yourself directly with specific tasks and in their day-to-day lives. There are different varieties of Guardians, as well. One of the most fascinating of these is the _Soulya_."  
"Sool-yah?"  
"Pathmakers. _Soulya_ are the "soul-guiders." They guide human souls after they have passed."  
"Do souls get lost or something?"  
"Some do. Those who were particularly lonely, or abused, or harmed, or had particularly difficult lives, often find it difficult to find rest after they have passed. Pathmakers' jobs are to guide these souls to a restful sleep."  
"That's...kind of beautiful. It sounds like a lonely job though."  
"Not on the whole, at least not from what I have heard. Though the souls have lost physical form, they often light the paths of the _Soulya_ , keeping them warm and lighting their way. There are other Guardians as well. Peacekeepers, who appear as great leaders and guide humans in times of tribulation."  
"The third sort of angel is very close to being a Guardian, but they are far more removed," he continued. "These are the _Barrd'enj_ or Bondweavers. Like Guardians, they guide humans, however instead of affecting them directly and guiding their day-to-day activities, they tend to affect them from afar, gently nudging them in the directions of those crucial to their lives."  
"How does that work?"  
"Well, say a Bondweaver knew that you were supposed to meet a specific friend. They would gently affect your mind, the world around you or the obstacles or opportunities presented to you to cause you to meet and become close to that person. Thus, they assist in weaving bonds between humans. Once the bond has been formed, they then see to it that the bond is strengthened and grows if it seems to be mutually beneficial to both parties involved, or even assist in severing the ties if it turns out they were incorrect and it is a poor pairing."  
"They must have a difficult job."  
"I do not envy them in the least. They have a heavy load to carry if they get a bond wrong. You may have heard of the most famous Bondweaver. Are you familiar with Cupid?"  
I blinked and leaned back.  
"The pudgy pink baby who shoots people with arrows to make them fall in love?"  
Mich snorted.  
"More or less," he responded. "I should think Cupid would be delighted to hear you explain him that way, he's always been quite tickled with the reputation he has among the humans. In reality, he is much the same as myself, though he has cerise-colored eyes and dresses much...eh...shall I say...brighter."  
"Brighter?"  
"I seem to remember a rainbow-colored glitter tuxedo. I continually question his choices."  
After my laughter had died down, Mich continued.  
"The final tier of angeldom is the _Senteel'eng_. These are essentially the servants and messengers of the other sorts of angels. One might be led into believing they are then considered the lowest and least important of the varieties of angels, but that could not be further from the truth. In reality, the _Senteel'eng_ are some of the most important, as they carry important messages, embark on perilous journeys, complete difficult tasks, and generally assist the other angels. They are essentially jacks of all trades, dabbling a bit in each of the other angel types. They can be called upon to assist with just about any task."  
"Angel society sounds fascinating," I breathed.  
"It has its perks, but also its negatives," Mich shrugged. "For instance, one can find it very difficult to stand out when one is constantly surrounded by others' perfection."  
I bit my lip and opened my mouth to say something, but Michelangelo was already standing and turning to me with a dismissive smile.  
"Come, milady," he said with a shaky smile. "Perhaps we should go inside and begin dinner."  
I stood and followed my guardian angel, watching him closely.  
Something told me Mich was still holding some things back from me, and I was determined to get the truth from him.


	4. Series Two, Chapter One: Elliott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see Elliott during the worst of times.

_Nyctophilia might as well be synonymous with loneliness._  
Elliott smiled to himself. There he went again, with the edgy wannabe poetic thoughts.  
He paused at the perimeter of a streetlight and gazed at its base, eclipsed with the thought. Pushing his fists further into the pockets of his black trenchcoat, he slid his eyes around the perfect globular light spanning just beyond the tip of his boot, not really seeing it at all.  
Though he had initially dismissed it as nothing more than a passing fancy, he edged the thought back as though catching it on the end of a fishing hook, though he had never been fishing before.  
For it was a relevant thought, and not on the whole incorrect.  
There was a certain kind of inherent loneliness that came with the falling of darkness. As though the shadows separated one from the world at large, as though even if one were standing directly beside another person, they might as well be worlds apart. Elliott lifted his eyes from the circle of light and turned them toward the heavens.   
What a strange word for them. Heavens. As though even a secular word had some semblance of a religious tone to it.  
He sighed.  
Perhaps his dismal thoughts about his preference for the nighttime were merely caused by his continued pitiful existence. He was a loner by nature, after all, though it wasn't entirely through his own choices.  
 _Damn,_ he cursed in his head. _You're pathetic._  
Pressing his fists harder into his pockets as though searching for a ground to cling to, he walked on, skating around the edges of the streetlights.   
What was it about the nighttime that made one feel so abysmally alone? Was it the silence of a sleeping world? The knowledge that everyone around you was likely settling down to meals or to sleep beside those they loved, whilst one was left outside, without a warm place to call home? Or perhaps it was knowing the only eyes watching one were those of the stars.  
Elliott drew the hood of his coat over his head.   
He hated his own head sometimes. Perhaps he had read one too many novels or dreamed one too many indulgent dreams. Whatever the case, he was starting to sound like a dry scholar, even inside his own thoughts. He despised himself sometimes.  
As he continued down the suburban sidewalk, the mumbling drone of a television bubbled up from one of the houses as he passed.   
"...reports of increased levels of gang activity in the nearby area. Officials advise the public to exercise caution..."  
Whether it was Elliott's shady appearance that had frightened them or the news report, the person watching the broadcast must have been made nervous, because there was the slamming sound of a window being closed and the television was abruptly cut off.  
It wouldn't have surprised Elliott if it was his appearance that frightened them. In fact, it would have surprised him a great deal more if it _wasn't_.  
Elliott paused at the edge of a street corner and gazed up and down. He could see the streetlights lining the tidy little suburb reflected in the puddles of rainwater still gathered in the gutters. He even managed to catch a glimpse of the sky's reflection in some of the puddles as he passed, their glistening far surpassing the sickly orange glow of the manufactured globes.   
Elliott paused at the corner. A car on his left turned, its headlights illuminating him for a brief moment before turning away. He wondered what he must have looked like to the people inside the car. A threat, surely. He wondered if they had originally planned to go straight, but had changed their minds upon seeing him. He wouldn't have blamed them, after all, he must look a sight, a tall young man with broad shoulders, wearing a long black trenchcoat and high black boots. And that was without them seeing his blue hair and luminous seafoam green eyes.   
Stepping from the curb, Elliott crossed the street. He wasn't really directing his own steps, allowing his feet to take them wherever they desired to take him, but when he stood before the imposing brick building he chuckled a bit to himself. He should have known he would end up at the library.  
Elliott loved libraries. It amazed him that humans had created entire fortresses dedicated to reading, with shelves upon shelves of knowledge, all free for the taking. And it was all without expecting any sort of payment.  
The library was always the first place he went when he visited a new city. It seemed like a home to him, every time. No matter where he went, no matter what corner of the world, the languages of the books within, the environment around, libraries always had the same atmosphere. The same hushed, reverent tone, the same thoughtful, knowledgeable air that commanded respect.   
Not to mention he often found the same books within them, no matter where he ended up.   
It was something amazing, to step into a library in Germany and find a German copy of, say, something like Harry Potter, and the next day find the same novel in Italian in Rome. To then travel to Brazil (he had always been particularly fond of Brazil) and see it in Spanish, and then in its native language, English, in London.   
It gave Elliott a warm feeling of unity. It made him feel as though all people were connected through their love of enjoying the same things, even if it was in a different language each time.  
Libraries also provided a sort of sanctuary for Elliott. He was a traveler by nature, rarely remaining in one place for long, so being able to have a similar place to return to each day gave him a sort of welcoming feeling. He wondered if people with a solid home to return to each day felt the same way.  
The library was closed now, of course. Elliott checked his watch. It was well after eleven at night. Ideally, he would have found a hostel or inn to stay the night in, but no such luck. Maybe he could find a nice balcony to sleep under.  
He was just turning around to leave the beautiful building behind when he felt a looming presence.   
He ducked and the thick tree trunk of an arm that had swung at him out of the darkness slid smoothly through the air above him. He glanced up.  
It was a tall, rotund man with a square-shaped face and a wide, grinning mouth. He had a jagged scar across his lips and eyes that flashed bright green in the darkness.  
"Shouldn' be out here all alone, mate," he grunted in a thick accent. "Mi' get yerself knackered."  
He swung at Elliott again, but the angel easily stepped back, hands still in his pockets. His eyes slid to the shadows of the pine trees on the boulevard in front of the library. There were more of them over there. Three of them. He returned his focus to the large one before him.  
"Don't you think this is a little unfair?" he said softly, his voice melodic in the warm early autumn air.  
The large thug sneered.  
"You think we care about 'at?" he spat, quite literally, shooting a gob of grimy black spittle that landed not far from Elliott's toes. Chewing tobacco. Lovely.  
Elliott's eyes turned from the gob near his shoe, back to the man. He lifted his chin and met the man's eyes evenly, challenging him.  
"You really don't want to do this," he said softly, calmly.   
"Oh, mate, I think ye'll fin' we really _do_ ," the man leered over Elliott and stepped forward.   
In an instant, Elliott leaned forward, placing his weight upon his left foot as he strode forward. Before the larger man had even taken a single step, he grabbed the man's thick right arm and twisted it, twisting his own lanky body so his front was facing the man's back. He twisted the man's arm with him, and there was a sickening _snapping_ sound. The man grunted.  
Elliott wasn't finished, however. He planted his left foot upon the man's back and drew a gleaming black pistol from the holster at his waist. He aimed it at the pine trees on the boulevard, from which the three other thugs were now emerging. Upon the sight of the weapon, however, the three other thugs stopped.  
Elliott, holding himself steady against the larger man, who was swearing at the pain in his arm now, Elliott examined the other three.   
A tall, thin man with a black mask over his face, with long arms and pants that were so short they showed his ankles. A woman of medium height, her brunette hair pulled into a messy ponytail and her blue eyes flashing angrily at him as she tightened her fists and made a lunge toward him. A shorter man with a fat face, wielding a knife.  
Humans, all of them.  
Keeping his gun trained on the three thugs in the trees, Elliott pushed his boot off the larger leader, sending him spiraling forward in surprise.  
"'Ow'd you do dat?" the tall, thin thug said slowly, watching his leader. "You some kinda monster or sommfink?"  
Before Elliott could answer, the woman leaped forward, launching a punch at his face. At the same moment, the leader struck from behind, reaching to grab the angel around the waist.   
Elliott, however, leaped deftly out of their reach, slid on the damp pavement, grabbed the woman's leg and pulled her down with his immense strength, sending her smacking onto her back on the pavement. A small spray of water leaped up from the puddle she landed in and she squealed in frustration.  
Elliott snarled at the leader, pointing his gun at the tall man.  
"You want me to break your other arm, _zasta_?" he snarled.   
He then pointed the gun at the other two thugs in turn.   
"Listen to me," he said in a commanding voice, making use of the fear he could now see sparking in their eyes. "Here is what is going to happen. You are going to get away from here. You are going to _stop_ hurting people around here."  
"Yeah? Or what?" the woman snarled from the ground, where she was holding her injured leg and glaring at him in defiance.  
Elliott leaned in and whispered his answer to her, his eyes flashing just as hotly as hers.  
" _Or I find each and every one of you and break each of your limbs, just as easily as I broke his_ ," he snarled, gesturing with the gun toward the leader, who was holding his injured arm and glaring at Elliott.  
"'Ow're you gonna fin' us though?" the shorter man, who had yet to have spoken up, said dumbly. He was about to continue but was cut off by Elliott, who in a flash had crossed to him and brought the end of the pistol to the man's chin. The man's wide brown eyes grew even larger as he dropped his knife and held his gloved hands out to his sides, asking for mercy.  
"I'll know," Elliott hissed in the man's ear, hissing through his teeth. " _I always know._ "  
At that moment, the moon erupted from behind the clouds and its light broke through. In the sudden flash of light, Elliott's face was fully revealed to the humans, and they gasped.  
Elliott cringed inwardly. He could just imagine it, the oily mark upon his cheek writhing, delighting in the pain he was causing, the fear he was instilling. It would be rippling, shining in the moonlight. His eyes would be flashing hungrily.   
"Let's g-get the hell ou' of 'ere!" the tall, lanky man stammered, stumbling away from Elliott backward, his eyes wide with terror.   
"H-He's not h-human!" the shorter man babbled, racing after him.   
The woman rose and sped after them as quickly as she could on her injured leg, cursing. The leader was last to go. Before he left, he cast one last glance at Elliott, who hissed in his direction. He fled.  
After he had watched the four of them disappear around the corner some distance away, Elliott's demeanor changed.  
Dropping his pistol on the watery ground, he groaned and pressed his hands to his face. He wrapped his arms around his legs as he lowered himself to sit upon the concrete, not caring about the autumn rain soaking into his clothes. He could feel the wetness and the cold through his clothing and he didn't care.  
" _Stielyet,_ " he swore in angel language before casting his eyes at the stars again. "Not again."  
Shoulders sagging in exhaustion, he picked up his pistol and returned it to his waist before he slid his hands into his pockets and continued walking.  
 _Yes. To love the night is to truly know loneliness._


	5. Series Two, Chapter Two: Elliott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts.

_I've been reading books of old, the legends and the myths_  
_Achilles and his gold, Hercules and his gifts_  
_Spiderman's control, and Batman with his fists_  
_And clearly I don't see myself upon that list._

The photos at the beginning of the book were solitude shots.  
Elliott had his favorites. There was one he had taken while traveling through the busy cacophony of a Chinese street. He could still remember the scene as easily as closing his eyes. Busy stall vendors had harkened to him from every side, babbling in rapid Mandarin that he should try the fish, try the chicken, try the rice. Steam had risen from the kitchens behind the stalls, massive metal woks frying all manner of vegetables, meats and spices that tickled Elliott's nose as he had strode among them. The steam had mingled with the smoke of the cooking meat, curling in great wisps around the crowd bustling through the streets.  
The signs hanging from the stalls were nearly as loud as the vendors. Elliott read them easily: _Delicious fresh seafood!_ _Cooked while you wait!_ _Ready to eat!_ _Cheap prices!_  
Elliott rarely visited this part of China. He had always preferred the quieter, more harmonious, reverent parts of the country over the louder, boisterous ones, but from time to time the solitude got to him and he visited the lights, sights and sounds of the urban areas.

As he pushed through the steaming crowd, he caught babbles of conversation. One peddler was haggling with a customer over the price of a whole fish. Two women to the side were discussing their husbands while three children clutched a bit tighter at their skirts when Elliott passed. Another stall vendor swatted at a dog's behind as it stole a stick of meat from his cart.  
The steam, the babbling of the people and the general flow of foot traffic served to provide Elliott with the impression he was pushing his way through a dense stream.  
Once he had freed himself from the hustle and bustle of the main flow of people, he turned and slid a small camera from the inside of his coat. Lining up the shot, he snapped a photo.  
Sometimes he needed mementos of crowded places to remind himself he wasn't alone in this world.

_But she said, where you wanna go?_  
_How much you wanna risk?_  
_I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts_  
_Some superhero, some fairy tale bliss_  
_Just someone I can turn to, somebody I can kiss_

_**I want something just like this.** _

But for every one of his favorite photos of his time in solitude, there were a great deal more he adored from later in the book.  
You could see an abrupt shift that occurred after he became close to her. Everything was solitude and seemed to be the perspective of an outsider peeking in upon a dense, populated world...and then suddenly his whole world was right there, captured within the boundaries of a tiny snapshot.  
There was one of her, sitting in a simple fabric camping chair. She was holding a water bottle in one hand and a metal fork in the other, and her face was stretched in a wide laugh, her eyes squeezed shut.  
He treasured this photo because he had captured her at the moment he loved her the most: when she was smiling. When she was happy, laughing, full of love and light, that was when his heart was so full of love for her that it seemed it was going to burst.  
He remembered why she was laughing, too.  
It was a starry night in mid-summer when they had taken that camping trip. Her guardian had been loathe to allow it, stating he was worried for her safety (but he was gazing toward Elliott when he said it), but she had convinced him. It wasn't much of a surprise she had been able to, in the end. He always had had a soft spot for her.  
So they had packed up a tent and enough supplies for three days and had spread out under the steamy mid-summer Minnesotan sun.  
She had chosen a campsite that meant a lot to her. It was a state park, with a winding river, thick underbrush and trees so tall they seemed to form a natural cathedral ceiling above their heads. Deer sometimes passed within a car length of the campsite, raccoons stole food at night. She awoke one night and clutched Elliott's confused, half-asleep form when she heard a furious snuffling at their tent, but woke him with bubbles of laughter when she realized it was a raccoon smelling their food through the tent.  
"We should have wrapped that up before we went to sleep," she said, rolling over and rolling the bags of sweets, sliding them into a bag for safekeeping.  
"Can't help it we were...distracted," Elliott grunted before thudding his face back into the pillow. He had never been very fond of being awoken from his beauty sleep.  
One night, they had started a campfire. She had shown him how to make s'mores, which he had never even heard of.  
"It's like a marshmallow sandwich," she explained with a smile as she unwrapped graham crackers, marshmallows and some of Michelangelo's favorite candy bars, Hershey's. "They're basically a staple of summer around Minnesota."  
She had patiently shown him how to perfectly toast a marshmallow (which, she insisted, was lightly browned on the top and bottom and blackened on the edges), how to lay out pieces of chocolate on waiting graham crackers and press it all together to form a sandwich.  
"You always want to make sure you have the chocolate and graham crackers ready _before_ you roast your marshmallow," she had said, carefully pressing a sandwich together and handing it to him, dripping marshmallow goo. "That way you don't have to mess with it while you've got a gooey marshmallow dripping all over."  
He had bitten into it and been amazed at how something so simple had been so delicious. He had eaten three of them before he had to stop.  
Eliott had just finished his second s'more when he had taken the photo. She had been roasting a marshmallow and telling him a story about one of her dogs. She had gotten so involved in her story that she hadn't noticed her marshmallow dripping off of her toasting fork. Finally, it had fallen right from the metallic utensil into the fire, with a little puff of ash.  
She had sat staring at the lost delicacy for a moment before bursting into a fit of giggles, and he had quickly snapped the photo of her.  
The photos weren't to cure his loneliness anymore. They were to capture her, to capture everything about her.

_I've been reading books of old, the legends and the myths_  
_The testaments they told, the moon and its eclipse_  
_And Superman unrolls, a suit before he lifts_  
_But I'm not the kind of person that it fits_

Another of his favorites was taken in Germany.  
He was never a fan of winter, choosing to spend traditionally colder months in more tropical and warmer places, but he had never missed a chance to visit a _Weihnachtsmarkt_ , or Christmas market, in Germany.  
It was reminiscent of the feeling he got while in the Chinese markets, but something about the Berlin Christmas market always seemed much more welcoming. Perhaps it was the smell of the roasted almonds, rising from the steaming food tents, or the smell of freshly made hot chocolate melting nearby. Or the smell of the pine trees, erected and decorated with glistening fairy lights. Or perhaps it was the line of craft tents, boasting quilts, scarves, hats, gloves and other gifts fabricated by the very hands that sold them. Or maybe it was the music, played by live bands in some of the tents.  
Or perhaps it was just the jovial way the boisterous crowd made merry.  
Whatever the case, Elliott sipped a large cup of hot chocolate and perused the goods. He shared few, but jovial, conversations with the sellers as he examined their goods. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he stood in the center of the square and peered up at the clock standing guard over the square like a sentinel.  
Even the buildings in Berlin seemed to grow festive at this time of year. They coated themselves in a blanket of white snow like powdered sugar on a gingerbread house, and the entire city seemed to be a gingerbread city. The snow coated the rings and lines of Christmas lights fastened to every building, leaving the blankets of freshly fallen fluffy snow to glow like they were magic.  
Magical. That was a good word for it. For the buoyant, floaty feeling the atmosphere gave Elliott in his chest, the warm, golden feeling that rested somewhere around his chest. It could carry him warmly through the days and even weeks following the Christmas market.  
Everyone was just so kind and loving, even toward him. They seemed to think nothing of the mark upon his face, and if they did, they said nothing, only offered him the same food, the same drink and the same merry words as anyone else.  
It was here he could truly fit in and be welcomed. Perhaps that was why he felt compelled to return every year.  
He had taken this photo from the window of the room he was staying in. A store owner had had an empty apartment that winter and had allowed him to live in it for a small fee (given the fact he had no furniture to fill it with). Elliott had spent many hours when he was not within the _Weihnachtsmarkt_ himself watching the hustle and bustle from the window of his apartment, taking the occasional photograph to remember the warm feelings it gave him.

_She said where you wanna go?_  
_How much you wanna risk?_  
_I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts_  
_Some superhero, some fairy tale bliss_  
_Just someone I can turn to, somebody I can miss_

_**I want something just like this.** _

It was so difficult for him to try to choose a 'favorite' photo of her. He couldn't decide if he liked the photos where she was posing, because they made her look beautiful by choice, or if he preferred the ones he caught candid, because they showed her natural beauty.  
There was a photo he loved later in the book. She was leaning over the railing of a small path, pointing down and to the left. Her face was not visible entirely from the way the camera was pointed, but her hair fell softly down her cheek and her nose was just visible.  
He remembered this.  
She had convinced him to go with her to the Minnesota Zoo, the most well-known zoo in the state. Elliott had asked her why, if she had been so many times, she would want to go again, to which she had replied simply: "Because I love it there." And that was it.  
And it was clear from the moment they walked in that she truly _did_ love the place. From the moment they pushed through the small crowd at the entrance, she was pressed to the large windows across the entryway, babbling to him to come and see.  
The windows, polished to a shine, peered out over a large enclosure. A snarled tangle of wood stood in the center, and small pools of water were placed here and there on the hill surrounding the natural sculpture.  
"Monkeys," she breathed beside Elliott, and he saw that she was right.  
Small tannish-brown monkeys ran, jumped, climbed and sat in the enclosure. He saw a pair beside the nearest pool that were grooming one another. Laughing (what an adorable sound!), she pointed out one that was hanging upside down on one of the branches, gazing in their direction.  
"What are you doing, Fred?"  
"Fred?" He asked with a chuckle.  
"Yeah, that's his name. Doesn't he look like a Fred?"  
"Looks more like a Michelangelo to me."  
She laughed and lightly smacked his chest, leading him away from the glass and toward another exhibit nearby.  
She knew the place well. She pointed out her favorite animals and exhibits as they passed: "Over there are the lions, they're always sleeping when I see them but there's a female I saw pacing the glass once." "Oh, and this is the Russia section, they have these _massive_ bears, and even the otters are big! I wonder if all the animals in Russia are that big?" "This tiger exhibit has a hidden radio collar, the same kind that's used to track tigers in the wild. You're supposed to be able to find it using this radar stick thing but I've never been able to see it."  
It wasn't until they got to the Trails that she really came alive, however. The Minnesota Trail seemed to be the one she knew best, and for obvious reasons. It was only natural she would know the animals she had grown up around the best.  
She seemed eager to share her knowledge with him, and her stories.  
"I love this eagle. You remember the river you first met me by? Well as I was growing up, there was always a nest of eagles across the river from my house. I saw them every year. I wonder if they're still there, or if their babies use the nest now."  
But when they came to the exhibit at the end of the trail, she paused and became very quiet.  
It was a small exhibit, decorated to appear like the backyard of a small cabin. The back wall was designed with long logs, with a false screen door in the center. There was even a mock back porch, complete with a rocking chair. A glowing picture of a window with the silhouette of an elderly woman hung on the wall, simulating a window. There were fake trees planted in the soil and a thin carpeting of grass.  
She knelt right down on the floor outside the exhibit and pressed her fingers to the glass, peering inside. Elliott squatted down beside her, peering inside to see what she was so intently gazing at. When he saw, he understood.  
Curled under the rocking chair, snout resting upon her tail, was a fox. She wasn't red, like the foxes he knew his girlfriend loved, but instead she was a deep black, with lighter brown around the tips of her paws. Her tail was thick and furry, and she gazed toward the new arrivals warily with glistening, beady eyes. He heard the girl inhale softly beside him.  
"You like her the most, huh?" he said softly, reaching to rub her back.  
She nodded, speaking reverently.  
"She's _beautiful_ ," she said breathlessly. "She looks so elegant and pretty."  
"Yeah, I think so."  
"I bet if she could hear us, she'd be really happy."  
"I didn't mean the fox."  
She had turned to look at him, and he would never forget the look of pure gratefulness in her eyes.

_Where'd you wanna go?_  
_How much you wanna risk?_  
_I'm not looking for somebody with some superhuman gifts_  
_Some superhero, some fairy tale bliss_  
_Just something I can turn to_  
_Somebody I can kiss_

_**I want something just like this.** _


	6. Series Two, Chapter Three: Elliott

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Night falls with gravity  
> The Earth turns from sanity  
> Taking my only friend I know  
> He leaves a lot  
> His name is Hope."
> 
> ~Twenty-One Pilots, "Semi-Automatic"

Elliott wasn't certain what had drawn him to this place.  
His boots crunched on sun-dried soil, accompanied by the soft rustling of grass he flattened with his heels. There was something calming about the even, steady rhythm of his paces through the starved grasses, like a soft heartbeat of nature. Something familiar and reliable, no matter where he went.   
As he approached a line of trees, thickly clustered like gossiping old women, the wreckage of the destroyed home met his eyes. At the same time, his senses were assailed by the heavily wooded areas around him.  
He noticed the soft breezes first. They rustled the leaves in the canopy above him. Something about gusts of wind always set his mind on edge, his heart rate picking up the pace. Perhaps it was some deeply grained instinct, that wind meant rain and rain might mean storms. That would explain his desire to find shelter. But there was none to be found here.   
Elliott calmed himself with the thought that many of the trees in the area were ancient. They had stood up to many storms in the past and likely would weather many more. He pressed his hand to the bark of one of these ancient beasts and gazed up into the branches. The bark was rough beneath his skin, and he drew his palm across it, teasing his fingers across the little bumps and ridges. It almost felt like a small natural community itself, with deep ridges for canyons and rivers and higher, raised bumps for hills and forests.   
As he lifted his eyes into the tree's branches, he saw shadows clustered around the trunk. Of course. It was shortly after sunset, after all. Shadows grew fast here.   
Hand still pressed to the trunk, Elliott closed his eyes and, for a moment, allowed the sounds and smells of the forest to envelop him. There was the breeze, of course, and the soft pattering of leaves as they touched one another. Somewhere in the distance, there was a soft hooting sound that drew a smile to Elliott's face. It was high-pitched and whiny, almost like a dog's squeaky toy. He wondered what kind of owl hooted like that.   
The woods smelled differently at night. Far from the sun-drenched soil and flowery perfumes of the daytime, the night brought stranger, more exotic smells. Musk, perhaps of some large animal lurking in the darkness. A colder, wetter soil smell, brought forth by the nighttime breezes from the nearby lake. The night did away with the plucky, lively animal scents of the daytime, bringing forth instead the earthy, richer tones of vegetation. It felt, to Elliott, like a time when Earth was at its most powerful, when it was not distracted by the whims and wills of the daytime dwellers. The night was a time for the powerful and the lonely.  
In the brush nearby, something rustled before bounding away. Elliott found his mind idly tracing the unknown creature's path through the ferns: it began about ten or so feet diagonally to his right, then veered left before zig-zagging away until he could no longer hear it. Perhaps it was a fox or a nervous raccoon. The owl hooted again. Elliott opened his eyes and turned his head toward his destination again. That was enough dawdling. It was time to figure out what he had come here to see.  
Leaving the shelter of the treeline, Elliott approached the remains of the house. The strange tug on his heart, which had felt almost like a fishhook, grew even stronger as he approached the ruined building. It was a yearnful tug, almost melancholy. Elliott found himself almost brought to tears without being able to explain why.  
As he stood at the very edge of the ruins, gazing across them in the failing light of the last rays of the sun, something caught his eye across the property. He seemed to feel his heart actually leap in his chest with fright as he lifted his eyes and saw a massive pair of luminous yellow eyes gazing at him across the wreckage.  
There was a long, tense moment as Elliott froze in place, the creature gazing back.  
There was a sudden movement that made Elliott flinch, but it was merely the beast moving its long, bushy tail. With that movement, Elliott was finally able to make out what the creature was.  
It was a wolf. Massive, it would have easily stood at Elliott's chest were it on four legs. It was sitting, however, its golden eyes peering across at him. Strangely, it seemed to be regarding him with something akin to inquisitive interest, rather than the malice that might have been expected.   
It gave off an air of total regality, from the way it held its head steady, chin raised slightly as it eyed him, golden yellow eyes gazing down its snout. There was a fluffy ruff of lighter, softer-looking dark gray hair around its neck, that stood out slightly from the shadow-like black of the rest of its pelt. Its paws were the size of Elliott's hands, and though he couldn't see the claws, his imagination attached dinner-knife-sized nails to the ends of the paws. Its ruffled black tail rustled slightly as it curled around the beast's front paws, which were tucked neatly against its body as it regarded Elliott.  
They regarded one another for a long moment, the wolf's ears tilted toward Elliott, before the beast made a movement. Elliott watched, heart thundering in his chest, as the wolf rose to its feet, and, giving him one last long look of interest, turned and disappeared into the shadowy line of trees behind the ruins of the house.  
Elliott remained frozen in place for another long handful of moments, his mind full of messy static and confusion at what had just occurred. While fairly common in the heavily forested northern areas of Minnesota, where Elliott's girlfriend lived, wolves weren't natural to Maine, which sported mainly small mammals, bears and coyotes.   
So what was one doing here? And why had it seemed so interested in him?  
Elliott finally managed to unfreeze himself enough to tap his fingertips on his thighs in thought, still watching the space where the wolf had disappeared. Unbidden, a sudden memory of Michelangelo rose to the surface of his brain.   
_"When did you know you were supposed to be a Guardian?" Michelangelo's stead and Elliott's girlfriend, April, had asked inquisitively, tilting her head._  
 _Michelangelo tilted his head and touched his chin in thought, eyes glazing over as he revisited the past in his mind._  
 _"I suppose I always knew I was meant to be one," he had said after a moment of thought, "however, I was more certain when I received my Soulyana."_  
 _"Sool-yawn-a? That's a thing now? Man, angel language is confusing."_  
 _Michelangelo had chuckled lightly before continuing._  
 _"Soulyana is...how would you say it in English...spirit animal, I suppose. That is the most approximate term. It is a being in beast form that best represents your soul and all of its intricacies. When an angel discovers their Soulyana, it becomes their icon, of sorts. Their mascot."_  
 _"Oh. Like yours is the mourning dove and your father's is-"_  
 _"The dove. Yes."_  
Elliott shook himself from his reverie and felt his eyes soften in wonder as he thought about the wolf.  
His mind still wandering, Elliott took a hesitant step forward, finally setting foot inside the wreckage of the burned building.  
The house had once been a small cabin, probably a cozy little home. He could still see remnants of the life that had once thrived here.   
A few wooden posts, all that remained of the once-sturdy foundation of the home, stuck up randomly from the ground, charred and blackened. It gave the appearance as though Elliott were stepping inside a massive burned skeleton. Ashes littered the ground, covering the trodden wooden floors with a thick layer of powder. Elliott's every step raised a small cloud of dust that puffed for a moment before dissipating in the nighttime breeze. The crunching noise of his steps upon the soil beyond the limits of the house was replaced by a soft, unnerving thumping noise as he paced timidly through the remains of the family home.  
All scent of the house fire had long since disappeared, leaving nothing but a sad blanket of gray-white dust as a memory of the lives that had once carried out within the walls of the home. Elliott touched his hand to the withered remains of a staircase that no longer led anywhere. He paused and gazed around the sad sight, nothing but gray ashes surrounding him, like a desert that had burned itself away to nothing.  
As Elliott paced through the house, he paused for a moment as he felt himself step upon something. Looking down, he saw something glinting dirty bronze beneath his feet. He reached down and gently plucked the tiny, round object from beneath his boot.  
It was the tiny wheel of a toy truck. Elliott ran his pinky finger over a tiny dent in the side. He looked up from the broken toy to cast his gaze across the wreckage once more. He could easily imagine a small child, who in his mind's eye had dark brunette hair and bright green eyes, racing through the halls of the once-quaint cabin, gleefully piloting the tiny truck over furniture as he ran.   
But now, all that remained was this wheel.   
Elliott tucked the remains of the toy inside the pocket of his night-black trench coat and paced on, still gazing around at the wreckage, now with a heavy, bitter weight upon his heart. Some family had lost their lives here. Even if they had not outright lost their very vitality, they had lost everything. Their furniture, clothes, dishes, toys...everything. Elliott bit his lip. It could all be taken so very fast, so very easily, in moments.  
Suddenly, something struck him quite forcibly from his reverie. For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, but as he blinked and rubbed them he realized that what he was seeing was real.  
From the corner of the house, a soft glow was emanating through the wreckage. He would have dismissed it as a mere trick of the light if it hadn't been long since sundown...  
And the glow was a soft pink in color.  
Blinking in surprise, Elliott paced hesitantly toward the soft glow. Seeing it brought something warm to the weight upon his heart, and he felt the fishhook that had guided him here tugging suddenly desperately at him as he approached the light.   
The light illuminated the mark upon his face, the oily scar that stretched from under his left eye and curled down across his neck and down, down onto his chest and around his back to end right above his hips. He felt a strange sensation tingle across the scar and down his spine as he approached the glow.   
As he approached the pink glow, he realized it was flickering in no discernible rhythm, almost like that of a flame.   
_Impossible,_ he thought. _Surely the fire went out ages ago._  
Nonetheless, however, the tiny flicker remained before him. It was partially obscured behind a piece of charred wood, which may have once been a chair. Elliott heaved the heavy piece of wood out of the way before the source of the flame was finally revealed.   
And Elliott didn't quite believe his eyes.  
There was a small lantern sitting on the floor behind the chair. It was broken, the glass smattered around the floor in tiny glittering pieces. The metal of the lantern was churned and twisted grotesquely, an effect of the intense heat from the flames of the fire.   
What amazed Elliott, however, was the luminous pink flame that was spilling from the lantern and onto the floor.  
The flame appeared almost liquid, spilling from the metal base of the lantern and onto the floor, where it had pooled into a tiny asymmetric circle around the bottom of the lantern. It flickered softly cerise against the ruined wall behind it.   
Without really understanding why, Elliott felt the sudden compulsion to reach toward the flame. Something inside him, he wasn't quite certain what, seemed to reassure him that it would not burn him.  
It did not burn him, but quite a similar effect happened when his fingers brushed the surface of the liquefied flame.  
There was a flash of light and a single word echoed ominously through his mind.  
 _STRANGER!_  
Elliott scrambled back on his hands and knees, his eyes wide as he watched the flame. It flickered angrily for a moment before seeming to rest and resume its tranquil, liquefied state.  
"E-Excuse me?" he managed to mumble out before he could stop himself. To his surprise, he jumped as the voice spoke inside his head once again.  
 _There is stranger...in our home...leave..._  
Elliott blinked, feeling his hands shaking. The voice was that of a child, a young boy.  
"The stranger you speak of...is that me?"  
 _STRANGER! SHOULD NOT TALK! TO STRANGERS!_  
Elliott spoke gently.  
"Did you used to live here?"  
 _You are a STRANGER._  
"Well then allow me to change that. My name is Elliott."  
 _Ell-ee-yot._  
Elliott felt a smile break upon his face as he heard the young voice struggle with his name.  
"That's right, Elliott. There, now I'm not a stranger anymore, am I?"  
 _Why you here, Ell-ee-yot?_  
Elliott adjusted his position so he was sitting cross-legged facing the small flame, his gaze gentle.  
"Well, I think I came here to help you."  
 _Help me? Am I hurt?_  
"Hm, well, kind of. Are you scared?"  
 _Very scared. Where's mommy and daddy?_  
Elliott frowned and touched a hand to his heart, feeling it ache slightly for the young voice.  
"I think your mommy and daddy are waiting for you somewhere far away," he said carefully and slowly, thinking fast. "It's scary, I know."  
 _Scary. Can't see. All dark. Smells like fire._  
"I have an idea," Elliott said after a moment of contemplation. "Would you like to come with me? We can see if we can find your mommy and daddy. I think I know where they might be."  
 _You look scary._  
Elliott chuckled.  
 _But you're not scary when you smile. Like you. Please carry me._  
Elliott took a deep breath. A soft breeze blew through the house, shifting the ashes as he reached down to touch the flame again. As he did, he felt a melting sensation down his back as the flame seemed to rise from its puddle upon the floor of the house. It gathered into a small droplet on his palm. Reaching into his pockets and feeling around, he dug out an old bottle and tipped the tiny drop of flame into it, sealing it shut again.  
"There you go, buddy," Elliott said. "Now you can come with me."  
 _Go with Ell-ee-yot. See world._  
"Oh," he said, suddenly remembering. "Is this yours, buddy?"  
He dug around inside his pocket until his fingers closed upon the tiny wheel he had found earlier. He brought it out and showed it to the flame inside the glass bottle. The flame seemed to flicker a bit brighter.  
 _Mine, mine! My truck!_  
Elliott carefully opened the top of the bottle and dropped the wheel inside the glass, where it clinked every time the bottle was moved. The flame seemed to gather around the familiar object and Elliott watched with a bittersweet smile.  
"What's your name, buddy?"  
 _Hope._

Elliott lifted his head and groaned as the tingling sensation down his back became much stronger. It began to burn, and as he pressed Hope inside his pocket he fell to his knees and clutched at his temples.   
"What's happening?" he grunted through his gritted teeth.  
 _Ell-ee-yot hurt? In pain?_  
But Elliott couldn't answer Hope as something split down his spine. A sudden weight grew from his shoulders and there was a wooshing sound. He closed his eyes as the heat became unbearable...and then faded.  
When he opened his eyes and moved to stand, he felt unsteady upon his feet. He nearly fell, but just as he was teetering to fall forward, something upon his shoulders spread and wafted the air, keeping him standing upright. Seafoam-green eyes widening, Elliott turned his head to see what it was.  
Two massive wings with ruffled, severe-looking black feathers (almost like those of a crow) spread from his shoulders. Among the smaller feathers at the base of the wings, he could see tiny flecks of silver sprinkled throughout. He blinked in surprise and felt a spasm travel across his back. His muscles moved in a way he was unfamiliar with and the wings flicked a bit, sending a tiny gust of wind across his cheeks.  
 _So that's how it is,_ he thought. _I guess it's about time._


End file.
